Pitcher Jim Abbott, with Gene Autry, former owner of the California Angels, stand in the dugout prior to a game at Anaheim Stadium during the 1990 season. GETTY IMAGES FILE PHOTO

The advent of spring is not awakened for me by the miracle of tulip sprouts poking out from the damp earth or even the emergence of leaves on my beloved fig trees. Rather, it is the start of baseball season that rekindles many fond memories that go back as early as the 1950s, when my family lived in Chicago, and I was a rabid White Sox fan.

Those were the years of the Go-Go Sox, with the quick and nimble Luis Aparacio and Nellie Fox up the middle and my personal hero, Dick Donovan, on the mound. I'll never forget the first time my Dad brought me to the hallowed confines of Comiskey Park. As we walked through the turnstiles with thousands of others, the dark of the entry tunnel gave way to the mesmerizing sight of bright sun and grass that was not just green but startlingly so.

I took my Little League mitt to every game I went to at Comiskey Park. My dream was to catch a line drive hit off the bat of Jungle Jim Rivera or Minnie Minoso. Sadly for me, though, at game's end, I would trek home with an empty mitt.

When I told my Dad's close friend and our next door neighbor, Tom Smith, of this disappointment of mine, he said, "Your Dad is taking you to the wrong seats. You come with me, and you'll catch a ball."

On the next Sunday double-header, with the hated Yankees, Mr. Smith and I sat right behind third base, close to the White Sox dugout.

Watching games on TV, I'd seen hundreds of foul balls land right around where we were sitting. Not during that long Sunday, though. All the fouls seemed to veer to the right, along the first-base line. Making matters even worse, the White Sox lost the first game after a grand slam home run by Mickey Mantle. In the second game, the Yankees' redoubtable Yogi Berra hit a home run to break a 1-1 tie in the 10th inning.

The White Sox and my empty baseball mitt slowly faded out of my life when I moved to Orange County. At first, I continued to cheer for the White Sox when they played the Angels. After a few years, though, I started to think, "Isn't Gene Autry my cowboy hero? Didn't I carry a Gene Autry lunchbox to Reinberg School every day for as long as I could remember? So, if Gene Autry owns the Angels, it should be OK to root for them. Right?"

Like all immigrants to a strange land, my old customs and traditions gave way to new ones, like becoming a passionate Angels fan, even cheering for them when they played the White Sox.

It seemed, though, that the baseball gods, somehow, were working against me, for it wasn't long after giving my heart and soul to the Angels that the Autrys announced plans to sell the team. Even worse, almost all of the suitors were planning to relocate the team. The only exception was the Walt Disney Co., but talks between Disney reps, the city of Anaheim and the Autrys had broken down.

When Disney Sports Enterprises publicly declared that negotiations to acquire the Angels were dead, the handwriting was on the wall: The Angels would be sold and move to another city. Having previously met the then-CEO of Disney, Michael Eisner, I decided to call him to ask whether he'd be willing to resume undercover negotiations at Chapman University. I told him I felt that the highly publicized nature of the talks derailed negotiations and offered the Chapman campus as a neutral setting, far from the media spotlight, to get both sides together again.

After Eisner and I shared stories about our love of baseball, he quickly agreed. His only condition to resuming talks at Chapman was that Gene and Jackie Autry would also be in agreement.

When I called the Autrys to sound them out, Gene's wife, Jackie, was enthusiastically positive about anything that could be done to get Disney and the city of Anaheim talking again. She and Gene felt that a Disney purchase was the best hope they had for Orange County remaining the home of the Angels.

Once we got Disney Sports Enterprise President Tony Tavares together with Anaheim Mayor Tom Daly and City Manager Jim Ruth, negotiations resumed at Chapman. While discussions were heated at times, both sides seemed to have respect and understanding for the other's position.

My role in the negotiations was to bring in cookies, coffee and soft drinks whenever I sensed an impasse regarding key critical points. That interruption for snacks allowed the negotiating teams some time to huddle to reconsider their respective positions.

When the negotiations finally ended in agreement, the Autrys were elated that the Angels would remain in Anaheim and were very appreciative of Chapman's role in helping make it happen.

In fact, several weeks after the deal was approved, Jackie Autry called to invite me to watch an Angels game from the owner's box – not only an Angels game, but a game against the Chicago White Sox. Having grown up with hero worship for the "Singing Cowboy," you can imagine my excitement about watching an Angels game with Gene Autry.

Gene couldn't have been more friendly and down to earth. He regaled me with great stories of his career and vaudeville days in Chicago. But, once the game started, his attention turned to watching every detail and recording them in a box score he religiously kept.

While I hated to interrupt Gene's fastidious work, I couldn't help but ask, "Has a ball ever made it to your box suite?" He replied, "No, but a couple of times they have come pretty close."

But in the seventh inning, a White Sox batter hit a sharp line drive that veered toward us. Since Gene was still immersed in recording his box score, he was oblivious to our imminent danger. Putting preservation of life ahead of catching a ball, I instinctively ducked and brought Gene down with me, under the table.

Fortunately, fate was with me; the baseball hit the edge of the table and slowed into a gentle arc just above my head. This allowed me to raise my hand from my crouched position behind the table to catch the ball on the fly.

Gene signed that ball, "To Jim Doti, with appreciation for saving my life." It is, and always will be, one of my most prized possessions.

James L. Doti is president and

Donald Bren Distinguished Chair

of Business and Economics,

Chapman University.

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